


the grad student who loved me

by LunaDarkside



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Crack, M/M, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27651875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDarkside/pseuds/LunaDarkside
Summary: Kaito is a spy. Shinichi is the longsuffering civilian who loves him.
Relationships: Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan/Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid
Comments: 40
Kudos: 486
Collections: Mixed_Fics





	the grad student who loved me

**Author's Note:**

> what's this, luna posting another fic less than a month since she posted the last one??????
> 
> well, kind of. i wrote this fic in the weeks around the election, just for pure stress relief--this fic was/is more for myself than for anyone else. it's certainly not my best work, and it's certainly not anything particularly good or well-written with regards to plot, development, in-character-ness, etc., but i enjoyed writing it and i thought i might post it in the hopes that someone else might enjoy reading it. this is the fic equivalent of a stale bag of potato chips, basically.
> 
> disclaimer: i have no idea how the public security bureau (???) in japan works, or basically anything about spies. please don't read this with the expectation of interesting or realistic action sequences. i also don't know anything about criminology degrees, much less grad programs in japan. please don't read this with the expectation of interesting or realistic depictions of japanese higher education. much thank.
> 
> with that, i hope you (or someone, or maybe even two someones?) enjoy. ~ luna

Shinichi and Agent 1412—Kaito, as he later comes to know him as—do not get off on the right foot, so to speak.

Shinichi, a graduate student at Touto University, is watering his plants on the balcony of his shoddy university-owned apartment at 10pm at night when a man comes rappelling down the side of the building in an honest-to-God white suit—his hair a mass of grime and sweat, a painful-looking cut on his cheek, a blooming spot of blood on his left thigh—and lands beside Shinichi’s right foot on his back, a bit like a startled turtle, when his rope snaps. He comes down directly on Shinichi’s hydrangeas.

“Ow,” the man says, probably because the hand-painted ceramic flowerpot has shattered under the weight of his skeletal system and is now jabbing him in the spine.

“My hydrangeas,” Shinichi says blankly. The hydrangeas were a gift from his mother, from when she came over and made a lot of noise about how cold and not-homey his apartment felt and then proceeded to smuggle a clipping over from Los Angeles despite Shinichi’s insistence that a normal Japanese hydrangea would be fine. Seeing it every morning has been a reminder of his mother’s particular brand of cloying affection. Shinichi is now realizing that he may have been more emotionally attached to the hydrangeas than previously anticipated.

“So sorry,” the man says, somewhat awkwardly clambering to his feet. His left leg almost gives out halfway. He’s young, Shinichi’s age, and attractive to the point that Shinichi clutches at his watering can and frowns at him with automatic distrust. “Didn’t mean to drop in on you like this, darling.”

Shinichi squints.

“Was that a pun?” he says, suspicious. The man cracks a smile. He’s got a killer smile, full of very white teeth, the corners pulling up at charmingly uneven angles.

“I guess it was,” he agrees. He’s standing upright now, though Shinichi keeps eyeing his knee for signs of collapse. If he falls on Shinichi’s morning glories, Shinichi may bash him over the head with his watering can. “I’ll make it up to you. Really sorry about this.”

“So you’ve said,” Shinichi says. He peers at the man’s suit with consternation. “Why are you dressed like you’re going to a disco-themed costume party?” Even if the guy is somehow making it work, it still seems weird.

“I lost a bet with a tech designer,” the man says. “She made my body gear in white instead of black like everyone else’s.”

“Assuming you’re from a government agency, I can’t believe this is what my tax dollars pay for,” Shinichi remarks, a bit disillusioned with society. He glances up at a grinding, mechanical sound to find a helicopter zeroing in on them, coming closer than any commercial helicopter ever does. “Is that for you?” The man looks up and sighs the sigh of a beleaguered single mother of four.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” he says with obvious reluctance before he crosses Shinichi’s balcony to grab ahold of the drainpipe that runs along the side of the building. “Again, I’m very sorry about this. I swear I’ll make it right!” With those parting words, he grabs ahold of the drainpipe one-handed, spins himself off the balcony, and goes sliding down the pipe. When he reaches the ground, he takes off running down the street, bleeding leg apparently disregarded. The helicopter changes direction to follow suit. Blinking, Shinichi finishes watering his plants and goes back inside to catch the new episode of Detective Samonji.

Shinichi would have chalked the whole thing up to some kind of hallucination—a spy (?) showing up on his balcony in the middle of a chase sequence? Sounds like he’s been watching too many dramas—if his hydrangeas weren’t squashed flat and basically beyond saving. And if Shinichi didn’t come home from the university the next day and open his door to find the man waiting for him in his apartment, sitting on Shinichi’s tiny secondhand couch and eating one of Shinichi’s Choco Pies.

“Welcome home, darling,” says the man, whose name Shinichi still doesn’t know. Shinichi looks at the half-eaten Choco Pie in his hand with distress.

“Usually I save those for after finals,” he says before he pauses and looks over his shoulder at his front door. He’s pretty sure he locked it when it left. There are no marks on the lock, though, and Shinichi suspects that if he dusted it for fingerprints, it would come up clean. He sighs and shuts the door.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” the spy says, sounding contrite. Today he’s wearing a blue silk shirt, a red tie, and white suit pants, a combination that kind of makes him look like a pimp. “I can buy you replacements.”

“Replacement _s_?” Shinichi says, narrowing his eyes. He suspects that if he checks his trash, he’s going to find at least two empty Choco Pie wrappers. The spy gives him a charming smile and shoves the last of the Choco Pie into his mouth.

“Anyway, I brought you something,” he says brightly, and gestures at Shinichi’s coffee table. Somehow, Shinichi didn’t notice the little potted hydrangea that’s been sitting there. The blooms are a pretty purple-blue, and the pot has rainbow polka dots painted on it. It’s quite cute, actually.

“You didn’t have to,” says Shinichi, suddenly uncomfortable with it. The guy probably has better things to do than hand-deliver hydrangeas to the random people whose plants he crash-lands on, like complete some kind of underground state operation or take down a local crime syndicate or something.

“No, I really did,” says the guy, batting his eyelashes. “I felt so bad about smashing your hydrangeas that I had a nightmare about it.” Shinichi raises an eyebrow at him, doubtful.

“You had a nightmare about that and not about the people in a helicopter that were chasing you?”

“Yes,” the spy agrees, solemn. “What’s a few gunshot wounds in comparison to the disapproval of a beautiful man?” Shinichi goggles, about ninety percent sure that the spy isn’t joking. If he squints, he thinks he can see the bumpy outline of bandages around the man’s left thigh, his right bicep, and his midsection, which adds an uncomfortable flavor of genuineness to this whole unfortunate situation.

“Uh, okay,” he says after a long pause. “Oh, I’m Kudou Shinichi, by the way.”

“I know, I had my people look you up,” the guy says, breezy. “You’re getting your graduate degree in criminology at Touto University. Ever since you were a teenager, you’ve helped out the homicide division of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Force, especially Inspector Megure Juuzo and Assistant Inspector Satou Miwako. Your mother is Fujimine Yukiko, a retired actress, and your father is Kudou Yuusaku, a famous mystery novelist. Your closest associates are Mouri Ran, whom you’ve known since childhood, and Hattori Heiji, whom you met as a teenager and who now is a fellow graduate student at Touto. You are currently unemployed and rent this apartment for eighty thousand yen a month. Also, you’re single,” he adds with a wink.

Shinichi frowns at him.

“People call me Agent 1412,” the spy offers sweetly. “But you can call me Kaito.”

“Right,” says Shinichi, doubtful. “Well, _Kaito_ , do you want to help me repot these hydrangeas? That pot is definitely too small.”

* * *

Maybe it’s the fact that Shinichi has been desensitized to all manner of surprises due to his background in murder and related areas, but Shinichi takes to the sudden appearances of a federal agent in his home with what he would like to think is considerable aplomb. For example, all he does when he gets home from an izakaya trip with some people from his program and finds Kaito bleeding all over his couch is make a mental note to get plastic covers for his couch and chairs, since he suspects that this may be a reoccurring event.

“How long have you been on my couch?” he asks. He has the slight suspicion he’s consumed one too many grapefruit sours to deal with the current situation. Kaito angles a winning smile at him. He’s swaddled up in something that looks like a cape and seems to be expelling blood from an arm.

“I brought you Choco Pies,” he announces, his uninjured arm emerging from the cape cocoon to show Shinichi a family pack of Choco Pies. They’re Hello Kitty themed.

“Those were on sale, weren’t they,” Shinichi says, knowing. “The Don Quijote down the street has had them discounted for the past month. I think they might be older stock.”

“I’ve been seen through,” Kaito says, dramatic, and then drops the Choco Pies and appears to pass out.

The wound on Kaito’s arm turns out to be a relatively clean shot through, so Shinichi sets to work getting it cleaned and bound up, thankful it isn’t something that requires too much coordination. He really shouldn’t have had that third grapefruit sour.

Kaito awakens as Shinichi is wrapping the last bit of gauze around his arm, his eyelashes fluttering, giving little groans as he comes to. He watches the side of Shinichi’s face with enthusiasm. Shinichi feels a bit like a three-tiered cake in a storefront window, being observed by a very hungry orphan in a Hans Christian Andersen story.

“Do you believe in fate?” Kaito asks. Shinichi may not be a fish, but he can recognize a line.

“Not at all. Fate is an irresponsible construct meant to absolve us of responsibility, deter us from believing that our actions have consequences, and prevent us from exercising free will,” he says, and cuts the end of the gauze with a definitive snip of his kitchen shears. Kaito gives him sad eyes.

“I always enjoy our conversations, Shinichi,” he sighs, and leans his head back on the armrest. Shinichi gives an eye roll as he gets up and starts clearing away the first aid kid that he pulled out for the occasion.

“So, were you in the neighborhood, or…?”

“I got shot a few blocks away, so I decided to hang-glide over here,” says Kaito, eyes shut and bottom lip sticking out. He’s still pouting, apparently. Shinichi squints at him, trying to decide if he’s being facetious.

“Don’t you have somewhere more interesting to be, rather than in the middle of Tokyo? A terrorist cell in some far-off land, maybe? Some kind of assassination attempt to thwart?”

“You’d be surprised at how much goes on around here, darling,” Kaito says. For a moment he looks tired, exhausted. The soul-crushed, bone-deep weariness doesn’t sit well with the youthfulness of his features, incongruent and disconcerting. Shinichi presses his fingertips to the fine wrinkles between his eyebrows and gently smooths them out. Kaito’s eyes blink open to meet Shinichi’s.

“Choco Pie?" offers Shinichi.

* * *

Kaito isn’t always hurt when he comes by, and he doesn’t seem to follow any kind of schedule. Once, Shinichi wakes up in the middle of the night to hear movement in his kitchen. When he goes to investigate, sticky-eyed and annoyed, he finds Kaito standing in front of his old, partially nonfunctioning stove, making souffle pancakes and scrambled eggs with the multitasking skills of a seasoned chef. Kaito turns around when he hears Shinichi and beams.

“Hungry?” he asks. Shinichi peers over his shoulder at the kitchen clock hanging on the wall. It’s 2:34 a.m.

“Sure,” he says. They eat the surprisingly good pancakes standing up beside Shinichi’s refrigerator with minimal conversation. Shinichi thinks he falls asleep somewhere around his third bite of eggs, but he wakes up in his bed when his alarm goes off at 7:30 the following morning. There’s no sign that Shinichi didn’t hallucinate all of it, except for a little “Good morning!” note pinned to the side of Shinichi’s fridge by a heart-shaped magnet and a last souffle pancake sitting on the counter.

The heart of the matter is that Kaito seems to keep odd hours—presumably a hazard of the job—and he likes spending those odd hours around Shinichi’s little apartment. Shinichi tolerates it for a while before he figures he should probably make sure that Kaito isn’t actually… some kind of foreign spy trying to overthrow the Japanese government by hanging around the shitty Touto University graduate housing complex (?). He first goes to Takagi, who gives him a weird look and informs him that he doesn’t have access to those records, and why is Shinichi asking about that, and also, does Shinichi need a police escort home? Then he goes to Miyano Shiho, a grad student in the biochemistry graduate program who he thinks doubled-majored in chemistry and computer science as an undergrad. He’s also pretty sure she’s not entirely human and possesses a Ph.D. in Being Terrifying.

“Can you hack into some government databases to find out anything you can about someone called Agent 1412?” he asks when he sidles up beside her. She gives him an unimpressed look.

“Buy me the clutch from the fall Fusae Brand collection,” is all she says after a lengthy pause, during which Shinichi sweats and wonders if she’s going to report him to someone. They trade wares a few days later. It turns out that the databases Miyano could access didn’t have much on Agent 1412, but Shinichi finds out that Kaito is the same age as him and works for the Public Security Bureau.

“You work for the Public Security Bureau,” Shinichi announces triumphantly when he wakes up in the middle of the night to find Kaito rummaging through his closet. He assumes that Kaito is fresh out of the shower and looking for clothes, since he’s got Shinichi’s towel slung around his waist and his hair is wet. He props himself up on an elbow to look at him. “And you’re also twenty-five.”

“Aw, did you hire hackers to learn about me, baby?” Kaito turns around to face him, giving Shinichi a good look at the grooves of his muscled stomach before he slides on an “I ♥ NY” t-shirt that Shinichi's mother got him as a “sorry we missed your birthday on our jaunt across the continental U.S.” present when he was sixteen. The juxtaposition of hot man and embarrassing t-shirt sparks something primal and frankly a bit gross in Shinichi’s hindbrain.

“Yep. I couldn’t get that much on you, though,” Shinichi says when he’s finished giving himself a stern talking-to about creeping on the random spy who hangs out at his apartment. For better or worse, his lack of attention cost him the sight of Kaito crouching to pull on a pair of Shinichi’s Touto University sweatpants.

“We do try to have good firewalls protecting the details of our operatives,” Kaito agrees as he pulls back a corner of Shinichi’s comforter and makes to climb in beside him. Shinichi frowns at him.

“You can’t possibly think I’ll let you into my bed,” he says, disturbed. Kaito freezes. “Your hair is wet. You’ll get my pillows and my sheets all damp.”

Kaito gives him a sidelong look, which Shinichi finds unfair, considering that he’s making a reasonable request. He’s unemployed and living on a student budget—despite what people may think, Shinichi has too much pride to go beg his parents for money to do things like replace his bedsheets because they got mildewy. And also because, having been acquainted with his mother for the last twenty-five years, he suspects she would probably refuse to buy him anything other than a Rilakkuma-print sheet set or something. 

“So if I go blow-dry my hair,” begins Kaito, in the tone someone uses when a kindergartener has said something ludicrous and they’re trying to point out the absurdity of it by repeating it back to them very slowly, “you’ll let me share your bed?”

Shinichi eyes him.

“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” he says, now on guard. “Are you a kicker? Do you have a contagious illness? Do you steal blankets? Are you going to smother me in my sleep?”

“No,” concedes Kaito, but the slight hesitation in his voice has Shinichi frowning at him in distrust. Kaito gives Shinichi a last indecipherable look before he leaves the room.

Shinichi dozes off for the few minutes it takes for Kaito to dry his hair and come back. He stirs when the mattress dips beside him and Kaito snuggles up beside him.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me into your bed before we’ve even had our first date,” Kaito says. His breath ruffles Shinichi’s hair.

“I can kick you out if you like,” offers Shinichi generously. Kaito doesn’t deign to respond; instead, he wraps his arms around Shinichi’s middle and presses up against his back, tucks his nose into the side of Shinichi’s neck and rubs a circle against Shinichi’s ribs with one thumb. Shinichi falls asleep like that, held in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. He’s not surprised when he wakes up to an empty bed the following morning, and he’s not surprised when he finds a little origami heart and a chocolate kiss sitting on the pillow Kaito used.

“If there are chocolate stains in that pillowcase, _he’s_ buying me a new one,” Shinichi mutters to himself.

* * *

Shinichi is in the convenience store one night, deliberating over which single-serving Haagen-Dazs flavor to get, when something brushes up against him from behind. He turns to find a tall woman, sharp-featured and well-lipsticked, standing there in a pair of sensible slacks and looking perfectly innocent as she browses the selection of lip balms on offer.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” she says when she sees him staring at her, and takes a step back, waving her giant purse in one hand. “Did my bag touch you? I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

“Kaito?” Shinichi says.

“Dammit, really?” the woman—or, the Kaito—says. “What gave me away?”

“Did you just grope me?” Shinichi says, ignoring the question. Mostly because the short answer is “I know how you smell,” which sounds serial killer-y and also like maybe Shinichi is a dog. He wonders why Kaito is walking around in disguise for a brief moment before he decides it’s probably something about being an undercover superspy.

“No?” Kaito tries. It’s disconcerting hearing his voice coming out of the face of someone who looks as though she climbs the corporate ladder in heels and eats lesser businesspeople as a midmorning snack. Kind of like seeing a talking animal, or something. Shinichi sets the thought aside for later perusal.

“In the middle of a Lawson, Kaito? _Really_?” He gives Kaito a disapproving squint. “Were you born without the gene that codes for shame, by any chance?”

Kaito pouts and crosses his arms across his generous chest, which Shinichi eyes with some bewilderment.

“I was just on my way over to your place when I stopped in here to get you ice cream and saw that you were already looking,” he says. “I was even going to get you the pumpkin flavor instead of the yuzu one even though it’s not on sale right now, since I know the pumpkin is your favorite. Because I’m such a good boyfriend.”

“It depends on my mood, actually, and for future reference, the purple sweet potato one is my actual favorite,” says Shinichi, frowning. “Also, you’re my boyfriend?” Kaito gives him the look of a schoolteacher discovering a child eating sand on the playground: as though Shinichi is cute, but also perhaps lacking in common sense.

“Do you routinely let men who aren’t your boyfriend sleep in the same bed as you?”

“Yes,” Shinichi says cagily, resisting the urge to stick out his tongue. Then, at Kaito’s pointed raise of an eyebrow, “I shared a bed with Hattori once, when we were out on a case and our reservation got messed up.”

“Hattori?” asks Kaito with sudden, intense interest. His gaze is inquisitive and far too piercing for the situation. Shinichi, sensing he’s made a mistake of some kind, backpedals with the clumsiness of a new bike rider.

“That is… not the point,” he announces, making a mental note to tell Hattori not to walk around alone for the next few weeks and to check that his windows and doors are locked. Not that safety measures would do much against Kaito. “Since when have you been my boyfriend?” The look on Kaito’s face is pure, unadulterated betrayal.

“I told my mother we were dating. I showed my departmentally mandated therapist a picture of you and told her you were my boyfriend,” says Kaito, giving him sad eyes.

“What picture? Was it a bad picture?” Shinichi asks, momentarily forgetting to care about being Kaito’s boyfriend. He feels an unexpected rush of self-consciousness. He hopes that Kaito’s therapist doesn’t think he’s not good enough for Kaito. Knowing Kaito, he probably showed her a picture of Shinichi drooling into his pillow. When he emerges from the terror that mental image provokes, he finds Kaito smiling at him, the fondness translating through the mask he’s wearing. “What?”

“You never cease to surprise me,” Kaito says, which doesn’t seem to be much of an explanation. Shinichi is about to point this out when Kaito steps forward to grab two pints of purple sweet potato Haagen-Dazs out of the freezer behind Shinichi. He gives Shinichi a single wink before he starts towards the register, loudly announcing to the cashier that he’s buying the ice cream “for my boyfriend, who is the very cute man over there.”

“But _what_ _picture_ was it,” Shinichi says to himself.

They go back to Shinichi’s apartment after that, where Shinichi has the dubious pleasure of watching Kaito peel off his face and dispose of his silicone… chest… piece. Shinichi eyes it with fascination when Kaito plonks it down on the coffee table. It’s very… jiggly. Shinichi swears he sees it inch across the table by itself, through sheer force of jiggling.

“You’re making me think you only want me for my breasts,” complains Kaito.

“Never say the word ‘breasts’ in front of me ever again,” Shinichi replies, shuddering. He lets the threat go unspoken, but Kaito looks sufficiently cowed.

They end up huddled in Shinichi’s bed, watching old episodes of _Detective Samonji_ on Shinichi’s computer while eating the Haagen-Dazs. Shinichi spends most of the episode lambasting the depiction of police work while Kaito hums at him. At some point, Shinichi ended up lying on his side with his head in Kaito’s lap, Kaito’s fingers in his hair. The position has made him drip ice cream on his own shirt, but the feeling of Kaito’s thumbs rubbing against his skull is compensation enough.

“If a forensics officer collected evidence like that, it would be dismissed in court on principle,” Shinichi is saying, almost knocking his mostly empty carton of ice cream onto his own pillow with an emphatic wave of his hand, when Kaito laughs. It’s a small, amused laugh that has nothing to do with what Shinichi is doing. Shinichi narrows his eyes at him.

“Do you think it’s funny that they’re showing a forensics expert touching a piece of physical evidence without gloves?” he demands, a bit icily.

“No,” Kaito says. “It was the picture from your LinkedIn profile.” Shinichi blinks with confusion, deterred for the moment.

“What?”

“The picture I showed my therapist,” Kaito clarifies. There’s a curve to his mouth. “It was the picture from your LinkedIn profile.”

Shinichi thinks about it. It was a professionally taken headshot. He looked presentable, at least.

“I also told her that you were very good at taking care of your plants and that you solve a lot of murders,” Kaito adds.

“Hmm,” Shinichi says, considering, before he settles back in. “Okay. Maybe you’re my boyfriend.” He turns to look back at his computer screen, but not before he catches sight of Kaito—undercover operative who routinely gets shot at and knows how to fly a helicopter and operates many pieces of weaponry on a daily basis—doing a fist pump.

* * *

Kaito has to leave for an important and classified mission the following morning, which is par for the course and still mildly devastating nonetheless. Kaito shakes him awake before he leaves to explain that he’ll be gone for a few weeks and not to worry if he doesn’t hear from him. Shinichi mumbles at him at the disruption to his circadian rhythm, but still accepts the kiss to the forehead and squeeze to the hand that Kaito bestows upon him before he leaves.

All things considered, Shinichi thinks he does a good job of being normal about it: he goes to class, he hangs out with his friends, and he almost burns his kitchen down trying to make souffle pancakes (in memory of Kaito’s). Still, he’s thrilled when he comes home one day and finds Kaito stitching up a cut on his forearm with dental floss and a sewing needle. He tries to keep his cool and definitely fails when he ends up hovering in the doorframe, staring hungrily at the side of Kaito’s face as Kaito makes a lot of noise about his trip.

After Kaito ties off the dental floss, he turns to Shinichi and pulls out a little pebble.

“I got this for you,” he says, beaming.

Shinichi tears his gaze away from the glorious slope of Kaito’s smile to look down at it, dubious. It’s small, smooth, gray, the size of a large blueberry. It’s just a normal rock.

“Is this some kind of mating ritual? Like what penguins do?” he asks, bemused.

“Yes, it’s definitely that,” says Kaito. “It’s not because I didn’t have time to think of a better souvenir and because I couldn’t find anything that didn’t give away where I went, and I conveniently found that rock stuck in one of my shoes on the flight home.”

Shinichi takes it anyway.

He’s holding it the following day as he sits in the on-campus food court, rolling it around in his hand and enjoying the feel of it in his hand, when Hattori and Ran plop down across from him. Over the years of acquaintance, they’ve developed an unexpected friendship. Shinichi suspects it may be founded on making fun of him and his life choices.

“What’s up, Kudou?” Hattori asks, plunking his tray down in front of him. He’s wearing a pinstriped shirt today and looks especially douchey. Ran, lovely and longsuffering as always, follows, setting down her lunch with much more grace.

“Nothing,” Shinichi says, putting the rock away so as not to be found hunched over it like a crow inspecting its hoard of trash. Apparently the single word is somehow very telling, because Hattori and Ran exchange a knowing look. It’s the same look that Shinichi shares with Hattori when they come to a mutual conclusion about a case: the “we’ve figured it out and are therefore superior to everyone here.” Witnessing it as a spectator, Shinichi now realizes how irritating it must be for everyone else.

“So you made up with your significant other?” Ran says.

“My what?” Shinichi says.

“You know,” says Hattori. “Your _person_.” At whatever Shinichi’s face does, he prompts, “The person you’ve secretly been dating and refusing to tell us about! You’ve been sulking for the last, like, two weeks, dude. But you’re, y’know, _glowing_ and _radiant_ and everything.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that makes him look like he should be on a list somewhere.

“Am I?” wonders Shinichi, doubtful, and touches a hand to his cheek, half-expecting it to come away glittery.

“You do seem happier, Shinichi.” Ran leans forward, her hair spilling over her shoulders. Her expression is that of a ravenous shark sighting blood in the water. “What happened? Tell us about them!”

Looking between the two of them, Shinichi suspects there is no escape.

“I may have acquired a boyfriend,” he admits.

“ _Oooh_ ,” Ran coos at the same time Hattori demands, “What’s his name?”

“Kaito,” Shinichi says.

“And his last name?” Ran asks, whipping out her phone in preparation to do some kind of social media scour, Shinichi is sure.

“I don’t know,” he admits. A little crease appears between Ran’s groomed eyebrows, and Hattori frowns. Sensing things are moving out of his control, Shinichi adds, “He was on a business trip for the last few weeks. He just got back yesterday.”

“Where did he go?” Hattori says.

“I don’t know,” Shinichi says.

“What was he doing on this… business trip?” Ran says.

“I don’t know,” Shinichi says again, then, at the expression on Ran’s face, tries, “Business?”

Ran and Hattori exchange looks.

“He gave me this rock,” says Shinichi weakly, and pulls out the pebble to show them.

The conversation deteriorates from there.

Dejected, Shinichi comes home a number of hours later to find Okino Youko standing in his kitchen in a lacy, heart-covered apron, making chikuzenni and humming what sounds like an old Kuraki Mai song.

“Leave out the snow peas,” Shinichi requests before collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table in a slump of anguish and end-of-the-day sinus ache, letting his head drop onto the table with a clunk. The only way this day could get worse is snow peas.

“Of course I left out the snow peas. I’m well acquainted with your irrational hatred of them. I have to admit,” Okino Youko says, eyeing Shinichi from the stove, “I was hoping to get a reaction. Or at least that you’d think that I was actually Okino Youko for a second.” Shinichi gives her—him—Kaito—a squinty look. Upon closer inspection, Kaito’s apron has “Would you like dinner? A bath? Or maybe… me?” embroidered across the chest.

“First of all, while I’ve met Okino Youko before and we still talk on occasion, I can’t imagine why she would show up at my apartment and cook me dinner,” says Shinichi. “Second of all, that song you were singing is a Kuraki Mai song, not an Okino Youko song. Third of all, where did you get that apron?”

“I made it myself,” Kaito says proudly. “I had a lot of time on the flight back to Japan.”

“Right,” Shinichi sighs. He doesn’t realize that his eyes have shut until there’s a gentle touch to his cheek and he cracks an eye open. Kaito has apparently abandoned the disguise, because it’s the sight of Kaito’s real face, set in an unfamiliar expression of concern, that greets him.

“Is everything all right, darling?”

“Yeah.” Shinichi suppresses another sigh as he turns his head into Kaito’s touch. “My friends just don’t think you’re real. I mean, it makes sense. I couldn’t even tell them your last name or your phone number or what you do for a living, so it does sound pretty suspicious. Hattori kept asking if you were from Canada, which I think is a euphemism for not existing.”

Kaito’s expression is complicated. His hand, which had been resting on Shinichi’s cheek, goes slack.

“Does it bother you that you don’t know those things?” he says finally. Shinichi, who’s been trying to weigh whether he should just abandon the last tattered shreds of his dignity and start shoving his face into Kaito’s hand like a needy cat, pauses to blink at him, surprised.

“Not really?” he says. “I mean, you’re an undercover operative who routinely goes on presumably dangerous missions. It would be kind of childish of me to expect to know every single thing about you.” He feels something inside him shy back from the next words that fit themselves into his mouth, and it’s almost enough that he swallows them down, but in the interest of being transparent, he forces himself to spit them out. “And I know the important things, anyway. I know enough.”

Kaito’s thumb sweeps over his cheekbone.

“Thank you,” he says, so softly Shinichi thinks he might have imagined it. Then, louder and more consolingly, “You can tell your friends that I’m super hot?”

“I did,” Shinichi says, sulky. “They didn’t believe me. Hattori said ‘Suuuure he is’ in this really doubtful tone, and Ran asked me to text her what my availability is for the next two weeks. I think they’re going to try to hold an intervention.”

“My condolences,” Kaito says solicitously.

* * *

A few weeks pass. Kaito comes and goes with no discernible pattern. He brings back better souvenirs than the pebble—a handmade ceramic pot for the quickly growing hydrangeas, a little figurine of a bunny wearing a bowtie that now resides on Shinichi’s nightstand, a family pack of red velvet Choco Pies that Shinichi devours in a single sitting. One memorable night he cooks Shinichi dinner wearing nothing but his frilly apron, while Shinichi makes a herculean effort to look respectfully.

(“You could’ve looked at my ass a little more,” Kaito says sullenly when he crawls into bed that night. “You’re giving me a complex, darling.”

“As if you don’t know your ass is perfect,” Shinichi mutters once he’s absolutely certain Kaito is asleep.)

Shinichi ends up attending Ran and Hattori’s intervention when Ran manages to lure him in with the promise of a good old-fashioned fake haunted house murder. He turns up to the address she sends him only to find that it’s a modern non-haunted Airbnb filled with gentle condescension and his two closest friends telling him that it’s okay that he’s been single for a while, they’re not judging him, they still care about him, he really doesn’t need to invent a partner for their benefit. At least they get takeout from Shinichi’s favorite Thai place. That adds a small amount of cushioning to the blow to his pride, like several wadded-up napkins against a hammer strike.

At least Ran is decent enough to drop the topic of Shinichi’s “fictional” boyfriend after the intervention. Hattori, in true Hattori fashion, has developed the tendency to interrupt a normal conversation to point at open air in the general vicinity and loudly ask, “Oh, is that your boyfriend? What does your boyfriend look like again, Kudou? Is that him, visiting from Canada? I think I see him!” Befriending Hattori, Shinichi has decided, was one of his more questionable life choices, right after letting Ran and his mom convince him to dye his hair blond when he was eighteen.

The situation resolves soon enough, however. A water main in Hattori’s apartment building breaks, rendering him temporarily without a home. Hattori and Ran’s girlfriend Sera tend to get into metaphorical dick measuring contests about motorcycles and (presumably) going fast on motorcycles, the witnessing of which is a psychological and spiritual torment that no person should ever face, so Ran declines to extend an invitation of hospitality to him. Shinichi, a good friend as always, invites him to stay at his place.

The apartment, thankfully, is dark when they arrive after classes. Shinichi sets to work getting a start on dinner—an uninspiring combination of white rice, tofu, and a few sad vegetables lingering in his crisper—while Hattori goes to set up the couch. He disappears down the little hall to Shinichi’s room, presumably to get blankets out of Shinichi’s closet. He’s gone for a minute before he flies back into the kitchen, skidding to a halt with his eyes wide.

“ _Kudou_ ,” he hisses. “ _There’s a naked man in your bed_.” Shinichi, in the middle of glaring at a half-empty package of snow peas, stops to think about it.

“It’s probably Kaito,” he decides.

“Probably? _Kaito_?” Hattori parrots. His face is gaining color quickly, like a timelapsed video of a tomato ripening.

“My boyfriend, Kaito?” Shinichi says. He takes great delight in the look that Hattori gives him, which is the freaked-out expression of someone being told that Santa is real. “The one who goes on the business trips to do business and gave me the pebble?”

Hattori sits down on the ground with a thump. Shinichi wonders, idly, if all along he was the real sadist, because he has to admit that he’s enjoying the way Hattori appears to be asphyxiating.

The actual first meeting between Kaito and Hattori is almost disappointing in comparison to that moment. Kaito comes out of Shinichi’s room several minutes later, now wearing nothing but a pair of Shinichi’s underwear, and clings to Shinichi’s back as Shinichi pokes snow peas around in a frying pan with grudging determination.

“Morning, darling,” he says with a yawn, ignoring the puddle of Hattori that he had to step over on his way to Shinichi. “What are you cooking? Oh, no, baby, why are you doing snow peas when you hate them?”

“They were in the fridge, about to go bad. I’m hoping if I put enough soy sauce, I won’t be able to taste them,” says Shinichi with resignation. He turns around and tilts his face up to present his forehead, in preparation for the forehead kiss that he can tell Kaito is itching to bestow upon him. When Kaito pulls back, his face aglow with a fond smile, Shinichi nods over his shoulder at Hattori, who’s watching the proceedings with the overall demeanor of someone seeing a dog stand up and recite the periodic table.

“That’s Hattori Heiji,” Shinichi says, then immediately snaps his jaw shut when Kaito’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly. Something primal in his brain recognizes that eyebrow lift as danger.

“Ah, Hattori Heiji? The man you said you’ve shared a bed with?” Kaito’s eyes narrow as he takes in Hattori’s sprawled position and general panicked expression. Shinichi has never been more impressed, scared of, or turned on by a man wearing nothing but boxers patterned with little turtles (a gag gift from Hattori, ironically).

“Ye—I mean, no,” Hattori says, changing mid-syllable when Shinichi gives him the “If You Enjoy Continuing to Respirate, Maybe Don’t” look. Say what you will about Hattori, but he has decent self-preservation skills when he’s not challenging Sera to motorbike races on unpaved mountain roads. He clears his throat. “I’m Hattori Heiji.”

“So I’ve heard,” Kaito hums. He regards Hattori for another moment before he grins. “I’m Kaito, Shinichi’s boyfriend.”

“So _I’ve_ heard,” Hattori agrees faintly. His voice gains a little strength back. “You’re not from Canada, are you?”

“That’s classified,” says Kaito.

So it really goes about as well as could be expected.

Surprisingly, Hattori is on board with the idea of Kaito being a spy.

“I think it suits you,” he says, pensive, on the way out of the apartment the next morning. Kaito is still asleep: Shinichi had to wrestle his way out of Kaito’s hold, rather like fighting a cuddly, territorial octopus. “You could never be happy with, like, a plumber.” Shinichi frowns at him.

“What’s wrong with plumbers?” he asked, affronted. He’s also pretty sure that he would still like Kaito even if Kaito was a plumber, despite that he imagines Kaito would make gratuitous use of “snake in the pipe” and “P-trap” jokes.

“Nothing,” Hattori says, with significance. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with plumbers. They’re perfectly fine. And _that’s_ what’s wrong.” He gives Shinichi a raised-eyebrows, mouth-closed look that probably means something in Hattori-ese, but just looks like he’s trying to imitate an owl to Shinichi. Further interrogation gets him a ruffle of the hair and a knowing smirk.

“Friendship with Hattori” may need to move another place up on the “Things Shinichi Regrets Doing” list.

* * *

Despite that at this point Kaito is the human equivalent of a sewn-up block of Swiss cheese from all the injuries he’s suffered, the fact remains that he’s a competent, if not exceptional, spy. It stands to reason that he’s made a number of enemies. Therefore, Shinichi isn’t particularly surprised when he walks into his apartment after a two-day-long murder investigation in Hokkaido and is immediately stun-gunned.

He comes to in what looks like a dimly lit shipping container, tied to a chair as a squirrely man with a large gun prowls around him.

“What, was it too much work to find an abandoned warehouse?” Shinichi says, disappointed. He’s further disappointed when he peers over his shoulder and finds that he’s been tied up with what appears to be a child’s jump rope. “And you couldn’t splash out on some actual rope?”

“I couldn’t find a hardware store on the way to your place, only a toy store,” the guy says, then looks annoyed. He has nervous, darting eyes and hunched shoulders, with hair that falls limp over his forehead as though it’s passed out in a dead faint, and looks a bit as though if you were to touch him, your hand would come away damp with—something. “Do you know who I am?”

“Do I want to?” Shinichi ventures, and finds himself facing down the barrel of the gun. He resists the urge to roll his eyes, donning his most innocent expression. “No.”

“Well you should,” the man says. “Kuroba Kaito ruined my life.”

“Kaito’s last name is Kuroba?” Shinichi says, latching onto the tidbit of information with the rapacity of a starved animal (aka Hattori after a long stakeout). The man looks startled, lowering the gun.

“Yeah,” he says, slow. “You… didn’t know his full name?”

“No,” says Shinichi, basking in the new information. Which means that if they ever get married and one of them decides to take the other’s name, the options will be “Kuroba Shinichi” or “Kudou Kaito”? He personally thinks the former has a better sound. Maybe he’ll bring it up with Kaito the next time they meet. Trying to sound casual, he asks, “Do you know anything else about him? His birthday or his blood type, maybe?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have kidnapped you,” the man says, sounding doubtful as he eyes Shinichi. Shinichi has the odd and unwelcome sensation of having his relationship judged by someone who thinks wearing a polo shirt to a kidnapping is appropriate. “Are you really his boyfriend?”

“Yes,” says Shinichi, affronted. “You think he brings just anyone pebbles from his secret missions?”

“Uh… right,” the man says, not looking particularly convinced.

“Sorry, I think I derailed your train of thought,” Shinichi says, gracious. “What were you saying about Kaito?”

“Well. Uh, I guess what I was going to say is that Kuroba Kaito ruined my life,” the man says. When Shinichi gives him an encouraging smile, he continues, courage bolstered, “I was a member of a crime syndicate in Tokyo, and I was up for a promotion after ten years of working for the boss. But then Kuroba’s people caught me, all on the down-low, and I gave up some information to get my sentence lightened, and Kuroba disguised as me and got evidence against the boss.” He looks glum. “Now that I’m free, none of the other yakuza bosses will take me on because they all heard that I’m a snitch. So basically my career is over because no one in my field will hire me, which means my life is over. I have a wife and daughter at home, you know?”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Shinichi says.

“Yeah, so I was going to get revenge by taking away what Kuroba cares about the most, like what he did to me, by kidnapping you,” the man concludes.

“That makes sense,” agrees Shinichi. “But really, I don’t think Kaito took away what was most important, right? He just took away your job, and that’s really just a means to an end, isn’t it? From what it sounded like, what you care about is supporting your family, rather than the career itself. The fact that you were willing to shop around for other yakuza bosses shows that you don’t really feel any particular loyalty to your original job, right?” The man looks pensive.

“I guess you’re right,” he says, a thoughtful crease between his eyebrows. His gun is slack by his side. “I guess… I could get a different job? I might have to work my way up, but maybe that’ll work out. My wife does work. Technically they were all right when I was locked up…”

“Exactly. And like you said, you have a wife and daughter, right? So it’s not as though Kaito really took _everything_ from you. You still have something left.” Shinichi holds up the jump rope. “See, you can give this to your daughter.”

“She’s fifteen, so I doubt she’ll want it,” the man says before he startles, eyes going wide. “Wait—” Before he finishes, Shinichi disarms him with a quick blow to the solar plexus and a swift hit to the hand. He kicks the gun into a corner before he gets the man down onto his stomach, holding him in place with a knee on his back.

“A new job sounds like it might be a good idea,” Shinichi tells him. “As long as it’s not anything to do with tying knots. You used a slipknot to tie my hands.”

“Yeah, I was more on the money laundering side of things back when I was in the yakuza,” the man admits, sounding embarrassed. “I’ve never actually done a kidnapping.”

It’s at that moment that the door to the shipping container bursts open. A fully armored SIT team stands there, battering rams still swinging. Shinichi stares as a man who is decidedly not Kaito emerges from amid them, striding into the little space confidently. He’s tall and blond and smells like sandalwood, even at this distance.

“Kudou Shinichi, I presume?” he says.

“Yes?” Shinichi hazards.

The man, as is turns out, is an MI6 operative who acts as a liaison to the Public Security Bureau. His name is Hakuba Saguru. He and the rest of Kaito’s colleagues at the bureau have been tracking Shinichi’s movements due to Shinichi’s association with Kaito, thus the reason why he came to save Shinichi. He was Kaito’s classmate in high school. The last fact is what captures Shinichi’s attention the most.

“What was Kaito like in high school?” he asks with interest that’s probably too casual, as his kidnapper is loaded into a waiting vehicle to be delivered to the nearest police station.

“Annoying,” says Hakuba. “He dyed my hair green and tried to break me up with my girlfriend.”

“Aw,” Shinichi says. Even by his own standards, his smile is besotted. Hakuba gives him a sidelong stare.

Shinichi is transported to the Public Security Bureau’s headquarters. At first, he assumed it was for questioning purposes—he was, after all, just kidnapped—but it quickly becomes clear that the reason has more to do with his status as Kaito’s boyfriend.

“Yes, right here,” a woman says when he comes through the front entrance, directing him to sit in front of her desk with a businesslike air. Out of the blind belief that she knows what she’s doing, Shinichi complies. Once he’s seated, she folds her hands in front of herself. “So. Kudou Shinichi, twenty-five-year-old graduate student at Touto University.”

“Yes,” Shinichi says after a moment, when she doesn’t continue. “So the man who kidnapped me—”

“I take it you’re thinking about going into police work,” she interrupts. “Since you have experience as a detective, as well as the fact that your undergraduate degree was in criminal justice and you’re currently working towards a graduate degree in criminology. Do you think you can support Kaito with whatever you hope to do after you graduate?” Shinichi frowns, momentarily derailed.

“I think I’m already supporting Kaito at this point,” he says. “I mean, I’m the one paying rent.”

“Hmm,” the woman says, and pauses to type something into her computer. “Name three good things and three bad things about Kaito.”

“Who are you, again?” Shinichi asks.

“Nakamori Aoko, his best friend and handler,” the woman says, giving him a menacing stare. “Three things. Go.”

“He’s good at cheering me up, he’s willing to watch bad TV with me, and he knows how to cook,” Shinichi says. “He also has no shame, he’s implied that he would kill my best friend for sharing a bed with me one time, and he flirts like he learned how to from an internet tutorial.”

“Hm,” Nakamori Aoko says, making another note. “What are your thoughts on the fact that you probably won’t get to hear many of the details of Kaito’s life because of his job?”

“It’s fine with me,” Shinichi says. “I understand why, so I’m good with it. I feel like I know what I need to know.”

“ _Hmmmm_ ,” Nakamori Aoko repeats with an intonation that Shinichi isn’t sure is complimentary.

“What’s he like in bed?” pipes up someone from behind Shinichi. Shinichi turns to find that a small crowd has gathered, all observing the proceedings with ravenous expressions.

“You don’t have to answer that,” Aoko says without looking up from her computer. She’s been typing for long enough that Shinichi is a little concerned.

“Okay, how about how big his—” someone else begins.

“Or that,” adds Aoko.

“It’s… not… small… I guess?” says Shinichi doubtfully, to a chorus of intrigued _ooh_ -ing, before he rallies. “Do any of you care to know more about the person who kidnapped me?”

“Not really,” Aoko tells him. “We’ve been monitoring your apartment ever since Kaito asked about you. That’s how we knew that you were kidnapped and were able to come get you, although it seems like you had it covered. So we’re up to date on that.” She finishes typing with a flourish, turning back to Shinichi with an expectant look. “What’s your dating history like?”

“ _Shinichi_!”

Shinichi looks up to find Kaito barreling towards him, looking as though he’s gone several rounds in the ring against a tornado with a vendetta and a mean right hook. His hair is a mess, and he has a streak of something rusty-looking on one cheek and a tear in the upper arm of his left sleeve.

“Hi, Kaito,” he says as Kaito comes to a stop in front of him, and does his best to weather the frantic face-and-upper-body pat-down that he receives. He intervenes, however, when Kaito tries to get him to open his mouth (presumably to check the status of Shinichi’s… tongue?). “How are you?”

“I was overseas for a mission,” says Kaito fretfully. He’s now pawing through Shinichi’s hair, giving Shinichi flashbacks to getting checked for lice as a child. “I had to fly the plane back here on my own.” Aoko looks taken aback.

“Wait, did you leave Keiko in Los Angeles?” she demands. Kaito ignores her in favor of checking Shinichi’s pupils at a distance of about five millimeters.

“I’m so sorry that I couldn’t come home sooner—I did my best to clean everything up before I came back—things took too long to finish,” he says, talking so quickly that Shinichi can barely parse the words. “I heard that you were kidnapped, and _Hakuba_ had to come save you—you’re not hurt, are you? Or traumatized? Either from Hakuba or the kidnapping?”

“I’m fine, Kaito,” Shinichi says, taking hold of Kaito’s hands, partly to comfort him and partly to stop the in-depth examination of Shinichi’s ears that’s begun. He gives Kaito his most sincere smile. “I’m completely unharmed. It really wasn’t that serious. The guy was wearing a polo shirt, even. He tied me up with jump ropes.”

“ _Jump ropes_ ,” Kaito groans, the way someone might say _barbed wire_ , looking anguished beyond compare. He looks at Aoko with an uncharacteristically feral gleam to his eyes. “Where’s the bastard who did this? I’ll kill him, I swear. Holding cell A or B? Or is he already being interrogated?” There are coos from the peanut gallery. Apparently this is what passes for romance in the Public Security Bureau.

“I think you’re missing the point,” Shinichi says, gently, giving Kaito’s hands a squeeze. “I’ve been through worse, you know. Like bomb situations, armed murderers, taking down serial killers… This guy was actually pretty friendly, even if he had a gun.” He feels himself brighten. “He even told me your last name.”

“Kudou-kun here apparently convinced the kidnapper to give up a life of crime right before he freed himself and disarmed the man. Neither of them were injured,” chips in Aoko, whom Shinichi had forgotten about. She gives them a small smile. “He’s not bad.” Shinichi takes that to mean that he’s somehow passed her tests.

Kaito looks at Shinichi with so much affection in his gaze that Shinichi squirms, feeling as though a flock of doves have been released in his stomach.

“How did I manage to find you,” he says with a reverence that Shinichi has never heard directed at him.

“You landed on my balcony and killed my hydrangeas and then kept breaking into my apartment,” Shinichi reminds him.

“It was more of a statement on the slimness of the chances of me finding someone who’s cute as hell, able to take care of themselves, and willing to put up with me,” Kaito says before he leans in to kiss Shinichi’s forehead. “I’m desperately in love with you, darling.”

Shinichi stares at him as he pulls back.

“You’re really doing this in front of all your coworkers?” All of them are now staring at Shinichi with the kind of intense concentration one usually devotes to disarming bombs or a particularly steamy liaison between two of their favorite soap opera characters. The latter hits a little too close to home. Shinichi tries to block them out.

“I’m hoping the social pressure and the fact that all of them are armed will keep you from rejecting me,” says Kaito. There is a definite sheen of evilness to the smile that he aims at Shinichi. Shinichi sighs.

“Fine,” he capitulates, and tugs Kaito in by the hands until Kaito’s ear is positioned by his mouth so he can whisper, “You’re not entirely intolerable, and you make good pancakes. What do you think of ‘Kuroba Shinichi’?”

Kaito's smile when he pulls back is radiant.

**Author's Note:**

> [catch me on twitter! ](https://twitter.com/lunarscaped)


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